Publishable By Death by Andi Cumbo-Floyd (reading like a writer TXT) 📖

her home, though, the little gal had started chewing anything wooden that she could find – a beautiful piece of driftwood I had picked up on Bodega Beach, one of the wine barrel staves that Mart had brought home to use for a sign by our house, even the table leg of the farm table we had purchased at a yard sale back in November. Plus, Aslan, my cat, took immediately to hiding under my bed anytime the puppy was nearby because the dog desperately wanted to be her friend. I had started calling her Mayhem as a joke, and the name stuck.

Fortunately, the Black Mouth Cur – a friend on Facebook had told me that was Mayhem’s breed after seeing a picture – had no affinity for chewing books. She was already a fixture at the shop, often taking up residence in a sunbeam coming through the north window while I worked. If nothing else, her presence was sure to bring business if the number of people who stopped to talk to her through the glass was an indication.

Today, I had left her home to rest up. I hoped tomorrow’s shop traffic would be heavy, and Mayhem insisted on greeting everyone who came in. The puppy needed to conserve her energy.

Once, on a trip to visit a friend in Denver, I had visited a bookstore in Frisco, Colorado, and had loved that the owner’s Bernese Mountain Dog had free rein of the shop. I had vowed then and there that I’d have an open door policy for pooches if I ever was able to fulfill my dream of owning my own bookstore.

My own bookstore. I stopped mid-paint stroke and let out a long heavy breath. I’d done it. I’d finally done it. Tomorrow, I was opening my own bookstore. I shivered a little with excitement.

The bell rang over the door, and in came Woody Isherwood, the town woodworker. Woody was a white man about seventy, short and stout like a teapot, and I imagined he had been able to lift most anything back in the day.

I had come to know him when Mayhem had gotten her teeth into an antique table at one of the local store’s sidewalk sales and I had needed to buy the table and then have it repaired. Woody had done a splendid job of turning the small console table into a cute little stool that was perfect for that garden section wing chair. So, when I decided I wanted a wood-burned sign for the shop, I’d contacted Woody first thing.

Now, here he was, ready to hang his creation. The sign was made from several planks of reclaimed wood that Woody got from an old tobacco barn down the road, and the shop name – All Booked Up – was burned deep into the gray wood. It was the perfect blend of rustic and nautical, and I thought it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

“Woody, thank you so much. I can’t wait to see it up there.”

“You’re most welcome, Harvey. But before I hang it, I have a question for you.”

“Sure.” I sat down on the edge of the platform I’d built by the south window for future readings by local and visiting authors. “What’s your question?”

Woody looked a little sheepish behind his silver beard, but he looked me in the eye and said, “Your given name Harvey?”

I smiled. I got this question a lot, especially from the old-timers over here in the rural Eastern Shore. One old fellow had even gone so far as to say, “That’s a man’s name. Your folks must’ve wanted a boy.”

“My name is Anastasia Lovejoy Beckett. At least that’s what my birth certificate says, but I never felt much like an Anastasia, and Lovejoy is what everyone called my granny. So somewhere along the way, my dad just started calling me Harvey, and it stuck.”

Woody grinned. “I could call you Stacy if you’d like to go back to your roots.”

“No thank you,” I nearly shouted. “Harvey is just fine.”

Woody laughed and then glanced out the window. “Ah, there’s my assistant for the day.”

I stood up and saw a thin, dark-haired, white man in coveralls coming to the door. I ran a hand through my short, graying hair and was embarrassed to find it coated in a thin layer of paint splatter. You can’t take me anywhere.

The door chimed, and the man walked in. Woody nodded at the man. “Harvey Beckett, I expect you know Daniel Galena from the garage up the street.”

“Nice to meet you, Harvey.”

I took a step forward and used the second to catch my breath. This man was super handsome in a down-home kind of way, and he had a dimple in his right cheek. I never had been able to resist a dimple. “Ah, you’re the infamous St. Marin’s mechanic.” I put out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

His smile grew. “And you’re the brave woman who has decided our decrepit gas station needs new life.”

I felt the color rise to my cheeks. “It’s a beautiful building. I’m honored to fill it again. Do you read?”

This time, Daniel blushed. “Oh no, ma’am. I mean I love books, but I’m not much of a reader myself. More hands-on.” He held his hands out in front of him, and I noticed that they were calloused and a bit dirty. It was endearing.

“Ah, well, we’re not all book people in this world. For my part, I have trouble finding the thingy that releases my hood, and the best description of a car I can give is its color. I drive a blue car, for the record.”

“A midnight blue 2012 Subaru Outback,” he said without hesitation.

“You’ve seen my car.”

He grinned. “It’s a small town, and I know cars.”

Woody cleared his throat, and I realized that I’d kind of been flirting. The woodsmith gave me a wink and said, “You ready to help the lady with this sign?”

“Yes sir. Let’s get this up so that it’s ready for grand opening. Tomorrow, right?”

“Yep. I hope you’ll both come. We’ll have food and The Watermen – the band not the actual fishermen – are going to play. It’ll be a fun night.”

“The Mrs. and I will be here. I hear it’s alright if we bring along Missy.”

“Of course. Children are always welcome.”

Woody let out a roar of a laugh. “Oh Missy’s our Chesapeake Bay Retriever.”

I blushed and smiled. “Well, still true. Definitely bring Missy. Mayhem will be here. We’re a dog-friendly shop.”

“In that case,” Daniel said, “Maybe I’ll bring Taco.”

I felt my smile grow wider. “Not your son, I take it.”

It was Daniel’s turn to laugh. “I don’t have any kids, and I certainly hope I wouldn’t name one of them Taco. No, he’s my Basset Hound.”

“I love Basset Hounds.” As if this guy wasn’t already catching my eye, he was the owner of one of my favorite breeds. I was probably doomed.

Woody opened the door, and the bell rang again. “We’ll get this up in a jiffy, Harvey. See you tomorrow.”

I had been excited before, but now, people were really coming. Dogs, too. And Daniel, well, that might just be a little bonus.